


A Series of Sexual Adventures

by Cards_Slash



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-04 04:07:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20464763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cards_Slash/pseuds/Cards_Slash
Summary: A collection of the sexual adventures of the Principality Aziraphale and the demon Crowley and their various physical forms.





	1. Nanny and Brother Francis in a Shed

**Author's Note:**

> While there will be stories wherein Crowley has a vulva/vagina and breasts his pronouns will always stay "he/his". If this upsets you, I apologize and I advise you not to read. Also, this writer prefers top!Aziraphale but that doesn't guarantee that all stories will go that way.

They’d been here before. Not _here_ here, not with the dust of the shed billowing like a great cloud around them. Not with the dirt under their shoes, not with the rattle of shovels and spades knocking in place. No, they hadn’t been exactly here, with the sound of hurried laughter, and the lingering smell of grass cooling off from a day in the warm sun. 

But they’d been here before, with Aziraphale’s hands making short work of buttons. His fingertips were adept at their mission, reducing the layers between them in fractions of seconds, until the full of his palm pressed against the bottom of Crowley’s ribs.

The bodies were new, like a fresh coat of paint over the same old wall. Crowley was a Nanny and Aziraphale was a gardener. But that was only the outside. All the rest was the same. Crowley’s limber arms looping around Aziraphale’s shoulders, the sound he made when his skin was stroked and the catch of his hitching breath easing to the end of a laugh. His sunglasses were lost somewhere between the door and the wall, dropped to the side as soon as Aziraphale could pull them aside. The yellow of his eyes burned hot in the cool dark, and his smile was as embarrassed as it was fond. “I’m sorry, angel, I can’t. I tried but I simply can’t.” His teeth were white and wet when his smile turned silly. “I can’t kiss you with a mouth like that—with teeth like that. Why did you go for those teeth? And these eyebrows?” His fingers were plucking at the excess of hair sticking out of Aziraphale’s face. “This can’t have seemed like a good idea. You’re as close to unattractive as you’ve ever been.”

“It’s a disguise. The point of a disguise is that you’re unrecognizable.”

Crowley’s fingers were framing his face, smoothing the wild hair down from where it was sticking out wherever it pleased. Aziraphale was willing to admit that it was just a tad over the top for this modern era but at one point or another, this look hadn’t been unusual at all. (In fact, in some time period he would have been considered very fashionable. He just couldn’t remember quite what time period that was.) “Mrs. Dowling couldn’t have recognized you; she’s never seen you before.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale said. He spared just the slightest little miracle to return his face to its usual configuration. (If for no other reason than to resume kissing as soon as possible, and to cease having this conversation.) His hands had been busy the whole while Crowley was examining his face. “We’ve gotten off topic.” The words were punctuated with the slip of Crowley’s skirt easing its way down his thighs. The demon’s face was a mockery of surprise, and disapproval.

“And they call you an angel,” he said. His voice hadn’t changed much with this body, and the accent he’d conjured up for the sake of the disguise had faded as soon as the door on the shed had swung shut. There he was with his jacket and his shirt undone, with his skirt on the floor and the only thing separating his perfect skin was a few scraps of underclothes that wouldn’t take more than the snap of fingers to remove. “What would Mrs. Dowling say if she knew what you got up to in this shed?”

“I imagine,” Aziraphale said as he gathered up the voluminous length of his costume, “she wouldn’t say a thing as long as the plants keep growing.”

“We should talk about the plants, angel.” Crowley was smiling at him, leaning back against the shed with one of his long legs lifted to the side, foot resting on a small crate. His hand was idly resting against his own leg, tracing up from his knee toward his hip. “You really are too nice to them. I understand that you’re the nice one, but you’ll get nowhere by being nice to the plants. They need a firm hand; they need to remember what’s expected of them.” And his fingers found the lacy edge of his panties, his eyes were as bright as sunshine, his smile curled at the edges exactly like the wily old snake he was. And his voice was tinged with an unshared laugh as he watched the fabric bunch and slip and fall despite Aziraphale’s continued attempts to gather it up. “Did you need some help?”

“I would hate to impose,” Aziraphale said.

“I could wait,” Crowley assured him. His fingers had slid across the soft, damp fabric of his panties, they weren’t pushing very hard, just sliding up and down, tracing along the center were— “I can amuse myself.”

“But that’s less fun.” They’d only started this whole affair because they’d been a little tipsy and deeply bored over a few long weeks when neither heaven nor hell seemed inclined to check in. There hadn’t been anything good on the television because there hadn’t been any televisions. They were between plagues, and there was no war to speak of, and well—demons were very curious and Aziraphale was willing to try anything that promised to be pleasant. It had been a one-off (so they said) and here they were, in a garden shed with Crowley’s terrible tongue licking around his own mouth as his breath quickened. His hand slid up to press against his bare belly while he stared right-at-Aziraphale like a challenge. When his fingers slid down they slipped right inside of his panties, and Crowley’s eyes fluttered but didn’t shut. His head tipped back and the muscle in his thigh flexed and relaxed again. 

“Don’t worry,” Crowley said, “take your time, I can wait.”

There was a definite, sensual, desirable pleasure in drawing out the inevitable release, but they were in a shed, on their coordinated lunch breaks, and there was only so long that young Warlock could be distracted away from seeking out his Nanny. They simply didn’t have the time. That wasn’t impatience, it was practicality. Aziraphale gave up with the slow method of removing his clothes and snapped his fingers. Like a puff of smoke, they simply disappeared into the air and Crowley’s laugh welcomed him back into the kiss that had gotten seriously off track.

There were hands on his back, pulling him forward and the weight of his body pushed Crowley into the flatness of the wall behind him. The demon’s legs were long-and-thin and perfectly capable of wrapping around his waist. The taste of his tongue in Aziraphale’s mind was tinged with smoke and something sweet that he couldn’t quite place. Aziraphale’s hands were blundering explorers, charging onward as they plucked at the band of Crowley’s bra until it was pushed up and over his breasts. Aziraphale liked every version of Crowley that he’d ever seen, there were none in the whole of existence that he didn’t have a definite, lasting preference for but there was just something primal and _human_ about the feel of breasts against his palms. 

It wasn’t logical, and he couldn’t ever quite remember what he had been thinking as soon as the moment passed, but here, and now, there was nothing as perfectly heavenly as the press of a hard nipple back into his hand, and sound Crowley made—

“It’s good you’ve never had a pair,” he gasped with his head tipping back. One of his arms was over his head and the other hand was pressing against Aziraphale’s shoulder to steady himself. “You’d never get anything done. Imagine what Gabriel would have to say about that.” 

The angels would have had enough to say about this as it was. They certainly could have filled their day with things they wished to say. They could debate for months, for _years_ about the number of inferences that you could make based on the evidence. Gabriel wouldn’t have worried too much about Aziraphale getting distracted by his own breasts, but he certainly would have curled up his lip in disgust and outrage at how easily and gladly distracted Aziraphale was distracted by Crowley’s. (The man didn’t even eat food, and food was one of Earth’s primary pleasures.) “Yours are my favorite, dear,” Aziraphale assured him. 

“Oh I know,” was silky and dark, and under any other circumstances it might have been worrying. It wasn’t a purr because Crowley was much more prone to hissing than he was to purring, but it was the sound of a demon who knew he had the perfect weapon to accomplish whatever his dark little heart desired. His fingers were scratching along the nape of Aziraphale’s neck and that was very lovely, like a shiver down his back. Crowley wasn’t getting taller, Aziraphale was getting shorter because his knees were bending on their own. It was just as well because the only thing better than his hands on Crowley’s breasts was his mouth, and that freed up his hand to slide down between their bodies. It afforded him the space and freedom necessary to wrap one hand around the demon’s body and slip one hand between his thighs where he was wet enough there was a smell strong enough to overpower the dusty odor of the shed. 

“We need to be quick,” Crowley whispered. But he could freeze time if he wanted to, and there was never any reason good enough to rush through enjoying a good thing as far as Aziraphale was concerned. No, he took his time about finding his way from Crowley’s bare neck, to his blushing pink breast. He memorized the feel of his trembling belly as his hand slid down across it. There was a gasp of anticipation just before Aziraphale’s hand slid into his panties, just before his finger slid through the slickness, and felt the incredible heat of Crowley’s arousal.

The moment could have lasted forever and Aziraphale would have been perfectly happy to live in it.

But Crowley was right (about the time constraints, at least), and he was also pushy. He was pully too, pushing Aziraphale back to get free of his hands and mouth and then pulling him forward cock-first. “Pick me up,” he said with that same low-and-promising voice. Aziraphale grabbed him by the thighs and pulled him off his feet, pressed him against the wall. 

Instinct was a beautiful thing when it brought them together, when Crowley (who had been steering the operation) still gasped in surprise when Aziraphale pushed into him, and how his eyelids fluttered closed. His face was pink and red, his lips kissed to a perfect blush, and his hair was a disaster all around his face. “You’re beautiful,” Aziraphale whispered into the round shell of his ear where nobody but the two of them could ever hear it. And since there was nobody to see Crowley’s face, and no witnesses that might be able to testify in an open court, Crowley’s answer was a smile pressed against Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“Stop wasting your breath,” Crowley answered. 

They were good at this part too, at working together, at finding the rhythm that worked. They were perfect at hanging onto one another, with arms and clawing fingers. Crowley’s breath was a symphony of encouragement. Aziraphale’s body wasn’t using inclined to putting too much strain on itself, and he’d never seen the point of exercise beyond a nice walk on a pleasant day, but this was—

Well this was fucking into Crowley with such blind, unrepentant abandon that the wall around them was shaking. This was the answering jerk of Crowley’s body against his, the rising sound of their voices reaching for the obvious end. Crowley’s mouth was found of the roundness of Aziraphale’s shoulder, and his fingernails were known for scrawling his signature on Aziraphale’s back. 

“Someone’s coming,” Crowley gasped with his eyes closed and his body quivering at the point of orgasmic relief. 

“You first, I insist,” Aziraphale said (because he couldn’t be asked to listen to the fine details of someone speaking at this moment). 

“Sounds like,” he gritted out with maximum effort, “Warlock.” And anything else he might have said didn’t matter because his thighs tightened and his head dropped back and the world went kind of white and static all around them. It wasn’t even poetic prose, but reality that was suddenly on the fritz for a matter of seconds. Things that had been in one place were moved almost imperceptible to the right. Time stopped and started and stopped and Aziraphale pressed his face against Crowley’s neck and followed along.

In the next moment, the shed door opened and young Warlock was standing there with pure delight on his little round face. “I told you I’d find you, Nanny!” he shouted. “It’s my turn to hide, you promised.”

Crowley smiled with almost heavenly indulgence at the child, and Aziraphale was left to look down at the voluminous costume he was once again wearing. There was a sense of afterglow that was out of tune with the reality he found himself standing in. He had not been given the proper amount of time to say goodbye to all the lovely features of Crowley’s body. The demon seemed to understand, he smirked at him, “until next time, Brother Francis.”


	2. In the Bentley (m/m)

Aziraphale had a way of saying things that made them sound exactly like he was only waiting for someone to prove him wrong. The quivering tone of his voice was inviting temptation, and Crowley had always taken it for granted that this represented a sort of weakness on the angel’s part. And he’d thought, because it wasn’t hard to see it for what it was, that it was Aziraphale’s adorably innocent method of getting away with a little naughtiness now and again. His words were brittle and sure, meant to be snapped in half by a better a better suggestion. The point had always seemed to be that Aziraphale had a solid alibi to say that he had stood his ground and the things that happened when Crowley slithered in and changed his mind—

Well, demons tempt you and all that.

But, it was Crowley who couldn’t quite remember how they had come to be in the backseat of the Bentley. It was Crowley who was leaning over Aziraphale, with his shoulders jammed up against the door, his delightful round cheeks pinked with exertion and excitement as he said, “oh dear, maybe we’re just too big to fit.” And then, like an apology, “not you,” and his hands were resting on his own belly, as if he were embarrassed to be shaped the way he was, “but, perhaps we shouldn’t try.”

Now and again, Crowley got very, very close to realizing that it wasn’t Crowley tempting Aziraphale nearly as often as it seemed. That Aziraphale’s regretful voice, and his precious face were as highly skilled as any demon in hell. The angel was a master of suggestion, because Crowley hadn’t even thought about anything before, he scoffed at the implication that Aziraphale was anything but perfectly sized. He had spared a thought and a minor miracle to stretch the length and width of the Bentley’s backseat to make it cozy enough to fit without being so large it seemed ridiculous. “You’re going to get us in trouble one of these days,” he whispered at Aziraphale just before he kissed him. And the angel was too pleased to play innocent.

No there wasn’t nothing that would even register as heavenly about the way Aziraphale’s fingers were sliding into Crowley’s clothes. They were taking the slow route this time, and that worked fine for the angel because Crowley didn’t go in for all those layers and buttons. It was a simple matter of a few buttons on a vest (if he were even wearing it) and the stretch of a T-shirt being pulled over his head. Crowley was bare from the waist up and Aziraphale was smiling with utter contentment as he ran his hands anywhere he wished. 

But Crowley was kneeling between the angel’s thighs, practicing patience that hell really wasn’t famous for, as his fingers started in on the dozens of buttons. “Is all this really necessary?” he asked (again, like he’d asked before).

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale agreed. He didn’t sound like he cared too much, he wasn’t even watching Crowley trying to strip him. No, because he had all of Crowley’s chest to distract him. His soft fingertips were tracing whirls, tracing tighter and tighter curls with every rotation, getting closer and closer to brushing his fingertips across Crowley’s nipples without ever managing it. It was a divine torture, as the anticipation built and built, as the feeling of such soft and warm skin against his drew all his attention from the buttons to his own skin. “But it looks good doesn’t it? I always wonder, I do get a lot of strange looks these days but a youngish human did stop me to tell me that I was living my best life and they loved it.”

“Angel,” Crowley said when he was only through a matter of vest buttons and his button down hadn’t even been pulled free from his waistband yet. His hands folded across Aziraphale’s and pressed them up against his chest where he’d been teasing at arriving without ever following through. It was different without proper breasts, but it was no less wanted for the lack of them. 

Aziraphale’s face was as devious as the devil himself, painted over with a mockery of innocence. “I was taking my time,” he said patiently, “there’s no need to be impatient.”

Crowley considered that. He thought it out in a span of milliseconds, and he scoffed as soon as the thought had passed from his ears to his brain and straight out again. He leaned down, against the push back up against his chest. They were evenly matched with strength but Aziraphale’s attempt at protests were ruined by how much he wanted to be kissed again. Those hands that were pushing him away slid around his back and pulled him closer. Crowley slid one hand around Aziraphale’s beautiful face and the other down to curl around the back of his knee to pull his leg up. 

Patience was a virtue but the first eager hum of encouragement from the angel under him was heaven itself. (If Crowley could be motivated by trying to reach heaven, which of course, being a demon, he could not.) Crowley had been aroused, fully hard and perfectly ready to move onto the main event but it hadn’t been important before. There was a number of buttons standing between him and achieving any real satisfaction. But now, there was the echo of a better satisfaction to enjoy, the acceptable (if not exceptional) pleasure of rocking his hard cock against Aziraphale’s eager and willing body. 

There was no space to really stretch out, Aziraphale’s shoulders were pushed up tight to the side of the Bentley and Crowley’s foot was pressing against the opposite side to add a sharpness to the rock of his hips. Aziraphale’s body lifted under his, something like an arch that couldn’t be made, and the angel was groaning in aggravation and impatience because he wanted to tip his head back and he couldn’t. “There’s really not enough room to be—”

But it had been Aziraphale’s idea to start with. Certainly it hadn’t been his. Crowley wasn’t going to suggest anything that ended with bodily fluids and sticky lubes anywhere near the interior of his most precious possession. It hadn’t been his idea to slip into the backseat, it hadn’t been his plan to start kissing like they were nervous teenagers. It hadn’t been his hand that slid into Aziraphale’s shirt, and down his belly and right between his legs. It hadn’t been his round cheeks turning pink with indecent thoughts, or his voice that suggested they might be more comfortable laying down.

It certainly hadn’t been Crowley’s idea to end up on the top of this pile of limbs. (Not that he minded, a bit of variety kept things interesting.) 

But they were here now, and Aziraphale’s pants buttons were significantly less in number than his shirt buttons. “Crowley,” was a sharp spike of outraged arousal. Aziraphale didn’t try to stop him when he pulled his pants down; he was wriggling his hips to make it as easy and quick as possible, toeing off his shoes so he could pull his leg free. “Crowley!” was rightfully annoyed when the mission was abandoned half way through. The angel didn’t like things out of order (never mind his bookshop looked very disorderly to anyone who didn’t know better) and it was commonly known that you removed both legs from your pants to get naked. 

Crowley was less concerned about that than he might have been. His hands were rough-skinned palms, significantly cooler to the touch than the pale stretch of Aziraphale’s thighs. The angel shivered at the difference, his mouth was red as apple peels, his eyes were intent and focused. The pair of them were staring at Crowley’s long-long fingers sliding up from Aziraphale’s knees toward the obvious shape of his cock still trapped in his serviceable white underwear. There was a happy damp spot at the head of his cock, and neither of them were doing much in the way of breathing properly as Crowley’s hands finally reached the muggy crease of thigh and hip. His thumbs slid up the curve of Aziraphale’s cock while his fingers slid up to catch the waistband of his underwear. 

“I’m being impatient,” he said when he was as close as possible to getting exactly what he wanted. His own cock throbbed in objection to the stupidity of his statement. It objected mightily to the childish need to tease. “Perhaps we should slow down.”

Aziraphale had the look of a well-loved teddy bear to any human that ever looked at him. He was as inoffensive as he was odd, and no human in all the history of the world had ever looked at him with any sort of malice or fear. They’d never seen him with half-open eyes and greedy lips curving around words that might as well been a threat. They’d never felt his hands sliding through their hair, ruffling back or resting with perfect tenderness against the back of their neck. His touch was temptation itself, no need for how low his voice was when he said, “I think we’ve lost the pretense of patience.” His thumb brushed across Crowley’s lips, his thigh flexed as his hips lifted, “we’re always more patient the second time around.” 

Crowley yanked his underwear down and Aziraphale dropped his hand away from Crowley’s face, and he was so pleased with himself, showing off the bottle of lube that hadn’t existed a moment again. “That was not in my ear,” he said. 

“I’m sorry dear, but it really was,” Aziraphale assured him. He popped open the cap while Crowley worried over his button and shoving his own pants down to his thighs. They stretched around his legs, and he might have cared in any other circumstances but these. Because the angel was offering the lube to him (at least offering to squeeze a healthy amount into his palm). “Remember, don’t stroke yourself too much.”

Crowley was groaning over the words, and the memory, and the very idea that Aziraphale was _jealous_ of a demon’s right hand. “We must talk about how controlling you’ve become,” he said. His knees were scooting closer, and his free hand pushed at Aziraphale’s thigh. They were both holding their breath, ignoring the banter they were playing at because this—

Well this,

Crowley pushed _in_ and Aziraphale’s five fingertips were pushing against his belly low-low-low like he wasn’t sure that it was such a great idea, and the two of them were groaning in unison. (Like a heavenly choir, singing praise to each other like God had never existed.) He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, pushed his fingers through the angels and pushed it up by his shoulder. “You’re perfect like this,” he gasped and Aziraphale smiled at him like he was an idiot.

“You say the kindest things to me,” the angel said. He squeezed his fingers around Crowley’s and used his free hand to pull him down to kiss him. The angel might as well been unholy fire as hot as he was, with Crowley pressed against him and inside of him. The ridge of his hard cock pressed against Crowley’s belly as they lingered in the kiss. 

It might have lasted an eternity, or a single moment, or a matter of seconds. Crowley’s foot was pressed against the floor board and Aziraphale’s hand was sliding down his back. The interior of the car was cramped (even as expanded as he’d made it) and hot, and the windows were fogged up with the steam of their breaths. No human was going to think anything of it, because they’d look away as soon as they registered the sight of it. But there was a dirty thrill to the idea of being noticed, an exception lick of pleasure low-low in his gut to know that he was fucking an angel, in a car, parked outside on a perfectly ordinary street and any_one_ could see them if they put enough effort into it.

God herself might be watching.

Wasn’t that a thought?

The kiss got lost to the hiss of clenched teeth and rushed breaths. Aziraphale’s head fell back and his fingernails were digging into Crowley’s back. His body was rocking like the car was rocking, because Crowley was _fucking_ him. He was sinking into the heat of the angel’s body to the cadence of slippery, damp skin slapping together. His hands were clutching at Aziraphale’s hips, his fingers digging into his ass, pulling him back into every forward thrust. 

Aziraphale’s half-realized words were perfect praise, his shivering body a perfect answer to the burning of Crowley’s. “You’re doing so well,” he gasped when he’d gathered enough breath to say a single thing. It was a rush of sounds, interrupted by moans and gasps, and the suffocating need to breath. Aziraphale was answering every thrust and demanding more.

Always more, more, more.

His gluttonous little angel was never satiated. His eyes were glittering, and watching, and—

Aziraphale pulled at his wrist, dragged his hand over to press against his cock as it leaked wet milky little puddles on his own belly. He gasped at the first brush of Crowley’s fingers, and jerked at the loose fist around his cock. Crowley didn’t do much, just enough to be considered obedient, because all he wanted was to pound his own orgasm into Aziraphale’s body, to see how long he could go before the angel couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasped, “Crowley,” he groaned, “please,” his fingers were wrapped around Crowley’s urging him to make a tighter fist, to press harder, to do _more_. His hair was soaked through with seat, his face was shimmering with it. His thighs were shivering, his body wet and willing and—

“Not yet,” Crowley said, “not yet.” He wasn’t ready yet, he wasn’t done enjoying this view—it came so infrequently, and he always forgot how much he liked it. How powerful it made him feel, and not because he was taking something, but because it was being given. He was allowed to have this, and to feel this, because Aziraphale allowed it. (And how he had gotten here? Getting all sentimental about an angel?) 

“I really insist,” Aziraphale countered. His hand tightened and no power on this planet, heaven or hell could have kept him from getting exactly what he wanted. It was the angel at his most greedy, _insisting_ on getting what he wanted. His hand around Crowley’s hand around his cock was the last straw, they managed only one stroke, out of time with the thrust of Crowley’s hips—

There was a dangerous sound of rustling feathers, the slightest blink of white and a shake to the car that not even the best demonic handiwork could keep a curious human from seeing. Crowley pressed his cleaner hand over Aziraphale’s mouth before he could start in on his litany of praise and approval that always followed. The sound of the world around them was filtering back in through the windows. The angel didn’t notice, or didn’t care, but Crowley was looking out the window at the shocked-and-appalled face that was looking in. 

He grinned, as confident as you could be when most of your attention was being stolen by your cock, and the face staring at him was even more outraged. It didn’t matter much, the angel’s energy had cooled and the Bentley returned to being an unremarkable blip in the landscape. Even the woman who had been angry a moment ago was just shaking her head and walking away now.

Crowley let his hand move away, and Aziraphale ran his tongue across his own lips, “you’re magnificent,” he said, “you’re—”

And there it was, between one word and the next, the orgasm that Crowley had been striving for. It overtook him, and Aziraphale’s hands were there to pull him through, his voice was a steady hum of encouragement and pride, and— 

Crowley laid on Aziraphale’s chest, rested his exhausted cheek against the skin-hot fabric of his ruffled-up shirt. He shifted his hips so his cock slid free and let his whole body go limp and basically boneless. He wasn’t heavy enough to be a burden and the angel seemed to have a sort of preference toward being gently flattened into place. “Shhh,” he said.

Aziraphale stroked his back and combed his fingers through his hair. He calmed down by degrees, his racing heart and his sweaty skin and his insistently moving hands that were doing all the work that his hushed words could not. And when he was still again, he said, “someone looked through the window.”

“Mm,” Crowley agreed.

“I hope they don’t remember what they saw,” he said. “It could be embarrassing.”

“No, it couldn’t.”

“Well I’m sure it’s illegal.”

Crowley stretched and lifted himself up just a little, just enough to look at his angel’s uncertain face. “I don’t remember reading that in the Bible. Seems like it would have been a memorable addition. Thou shalt not commit sodomy in a parked car with your boyfriend who is an angel-slash-demon.”

“Don’t be silly,” Aziraphale said, “and of course I didn’t mean divine law, if I cared that much about divine law, I wouldn’t be here at all.” He made a dismissive noise, shifted how he was laying like he’d only just remembered his pants and underwear were wrapped around one of his knees, and he would have to start fussing about how sullied and unkept he looked any moment. “Boyfriend?” he struck upon, “is that what we are? _Boyfriends_?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, “isn’t that what they’re calling it these days?”

Aziraphale smiled like the sun rising, and pulled him in for a lovely kiss. And when he couldn’t stand it a moment longer, he shoved Crowley away without any pretense at all. “I’m very sorry, I tried and I _can’t_. Look at the state of these clothes! Look at my shirt, I don’t even know how you remove semen stains from things, and this vest is old. It’s not as old as the coat, but it’s old enough.”

“You shouldn’t have given yourself semen,” Crowley said. He stretched as Aziraphale fussed, “I didn’t.” He might have said more but there was his lover’s angry glare that advised him to kindly shut up. And he snapped his fingers to put everything that was out of order right. They weren’t half-naked, sticky and sitting in the backseat anymore, but fully dressed and cleaned and in the front seat of a correctly proportioned Bentley. “Now, where to for round two?”

Aziraphale straightened his bowtie and said, “I think we should get lunch first.”

“If we get lunch, it won’t be round two, it’ll be round one again and we’ll have to start all over.”

Aziraphale wanted to tell him that he’d never heard stupider words in all his life, and then he forfeited the argument with a nod of his head, “well,” he said, “I’m still hungry.”

Crowley smiled at him, “where to, angel?”


	3. Uncontrollable Lust; M/M

“What do you suppose it’s like?”

Aziraphale thought it was of the utmost importance that the world at large, and heaven above and hell below, all make note of the fact that the Incident (as it would be referred to henceforth) had started with Crowley. Most things that got out of control started with Crowley. The demon’s greatest strength and his biggest weakness was his uncontrollable imagination. There had never been a thought that crossed the demon’s mind that was considered too ludicrous to investigate. 

So, naturally, with the demon sprawled across his seat like a screaming sexual invitation, when they happened to be the unintentional witnesses of an impressively lengthy, wet, passionate kiss in the park the idea had crossed Crowley’s mind. And it had leapt out of his mouth.

Aziraphale couldn’t say he hadn’t ever desired sex, because he had. It was just that it didn’t consume his thoughts, and when it did creep into his mind, it was always a controlled notion. The way you might remember how much you enjoyed lemon cookies after you’d gone too long without them. The way you might think to yourself that a long soak in a hot bath would be divine. The way sometimes you got peckish and popped across the channel to get crepes, and it was unfortunate timing, but you still really did want to get some decent food. Aziraphale wanted Crowley when the thought occurred to him, and they could be passionate about it, but it was never like that. “No,” he’d answered. “It seems inconvenient.”

“Hmm,” Crowley hummed. He was fully distracted by his own thoughts or the humans sticking their tongues in each other’s mouths. Or maybe he was watching the way their hands seemed to have disappeared and their clothes seemed to be moving like a living thing. Perhaps he was waiting for the humans to rediscover the necessity of breathing. Maybe he was thinking about ice lollies. (One could not be sure with demons, or Crowley in general.) “Seems fun,” he countered.

“Fun?” Aziraphale repeated, “what about this shameless display seems fun to you? What about having no control over yourself seems fun?”

“They have control,” Crowley countered, he lifted a hand away from where he’d had it draped over the inside of his thigh. “Look at that, they’re still wearing clothes and they clearly wished they weren’t. Come on, angel, haven’t you ever wondered what it would feel like to feel that kind of desire?”

“I have felt that desire.” Just generally it was felt indoors and near a bed.

Crowley’s eyebrow lifted behind his glasses; his whole body shifted to a slant of disbelief. “Desire like that? Kiss until you pass out, hands under clothes, dizzy and aroused and desperate kind of desire? No, I don’t think you have. I haven’t.”

“We’re different,” Aziraphale said. (He wasn’t feeling insulted, but he was feeling ever so slightly assaulted by the insinuation that his desire wasn’t good enough. His desire was good enough for anyone. And it came in fairly regular intervals, so it was never as if either of them had to wait to satiate the need when it came. He even agreed to sex when he wasn’t feeling amorous himself and he had never regretted it.) “We’re not human. We can’t be controlled by human impulses—can you imagine what it would have been like to be here on earth for six thousand years if we ran around getting distracted by anything that caught our eye? We’d get nothing done, look at the humans, it’s been six thousand years and they still haven’t stopped distracting themselves.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and turned his face forward again. The couple was _still_ making out. “I didn’t mean all the time. Just once, maybe. I wonder what it must feel like, if it’s all that different.”

Aziraphale could feel a bad idea forming, and he might have set a reminder in his calendar so he could prepare accordingly for when Crowley’s absent wondering became a fully formed bad idea. “We’ve tried stranger things,” he said. It wasn’t an agreement or an invitation, but a thing to say to fill the space.

Crowley’s grin cracked his face and his tongue was wicked and pleased as he tipped his head to look at Aziraphale. “We have,” he said, and he rolled up so he could kiss Aziraphale’s cheek before he was on his feet. “Come on, we’ve been talking about getting something to eat since breakfast.” And it was now well past dinner time. Crowley held out his hand and waited for Aziraphale to take it.

\--

Perhaps, and just in theory, Crowley had been too successful in his minor make-them-both-horny miracle. He wasn’t willing to say that the whole thing had been a mistake as yet, but he couldn’t have predicted the urgency that seemed to grip every single part of his body all at once. It left him with a brain-stealing stupidity that prevented his limbs from coordinating themselves in any sort of meaningful way. 

It wasn’t even his own fault. He was possessed with a deep-in-his-gut lust for his own body. He wasn’t preoccupied by how his clothes were clinging to him everywhere. It was like being wrapped up like a present and left out to be discovered by someone that thought the wrapping paper was the right sort of shiny. He might even have had a bow in his hair.

Might have, but the very first thing Aziraphale had done—no scratch that.

The first thing Aziraphale had done was widen his eyes as his cheeks flushed a beautiful rosy color. The man was entirely too many light colors, a certain darkening of his cheeks really added the perfect contrast as far as Crowley was concerned. The second thing that Aziraphale had done after the snap of Crowley’s fingers was reach down the front of his own body to brush his hand against his cock through his pants. It wasn’t a gentle, reassuring pat, the sort of thing that one or the other sometimes did to make sure they’d remembered to come prepared to the party but a shameless, sexual squeeze of his fingers.

And the _third_ thing Aziraphale had done was grab Crowley like he couldn’t stand it. His hand had found it’s way to Crowley’s hair by sneaking up the back of his neck, and his fingers were a tight fist, pulling his head back. Aziraphale’s mouth had settled on his neck with no sense of moving on to other needy locations. No he was content with scraping his blunt teeth across the stretched skin of his neck, of tasting the slow bead of sweat that came from wearing entirely too many clothes.

Crowley’s clothes were unwanted things, gripping him so intimately without offering any answering sense of lust. He had been right about, about how delightful it was to have his own desires reflected in another body. To be _desired_ was every bit as devilish as he’d hoped. He might even call the whole ordeal a success when it was over, as long as he could carry the sensation of being so briskly and selfishly manhandled with him. Not that Aziraphale wasn’t fully capable of manhandling any time it was appropriate, just that it had never been done with such abandon.

“Oh, fuck,” Crowley moaned as his hand flailed out sideways, looking for anything they could fall onto. His back was bowed backward, his front pressed up against the sturdy warmth of his angel’s body. He was being suspended in a moment that couldn’t possibly be maintained. Maybe it could have been, if cooler heads could have been maintained, if he were capable of doing anything but rocking his hips up to grind his dick against Aziraphale’s hip. Maybe things could have stayed just like this until neither of them could take it another moment, if only the answer to his restless rocking hadn’t been the tight trip of Aziraphale’s hand pulling at his ass the utterly shameless answering thrust that all but knocked them over.

They were going to fall, it was better to have an idea of where they were going to land. “Stairs,” Aziraphale gasped. It was difficult to know if it was a request, a demand, or a warning. 

“Take this off,” Crowley hissed. He couldn’t move his head but so much without reminding Aziraphale of that grip on his hair. And he hadn’t known that about himself before this moment. He hadn’t even imagined he would enjoy getting his hair pulled as much as his cock presently seemed to be enjoying it. “Take it all off.”

“No time,” Aziraphale answered briskly. He settled the lingering question of the meaning of the word stairs but pushing them to the left with the impatient shift of his own feet across the ground. The first stair hit the back of Crowley’s ankle and he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders to keep from falling. The angel had other ideas, because he was pushing them down so Crowley was laying across a number of stairs, with one hand gripping at the railing and the other pulling at the back of Aziraphale’s neck.

They kissed like utter idiots. They kissed like they’d never heard of it before this moment. His tongue was sliding into Aziraphale’s mouth with no finesse. The growling hunger of their mouths was artless, and it was perfect in that way. It left him feeling _starved_, as if his body had been hollowed out and filled up again with a sort of liquid want. His concentration was narrowing to a fixed point, somewhere low between his legs, and it was throbbing with stiff and unyielding _need_.

Aziraphale must have heard the unspoken pleas because he was kissing Crowley as his hands ripped open his pants. There was nothing at all refined about his beautiful angel. No he’d made a greedy beast of his lover, so he was kneeling between Crowley’s thighs, shoving his pants down until they were stuck around his knees. “Oh,” Aziraphale gasped with his forehead pressed against Crowley’s shoulder. His hands were gripping helplessly at Crowley’s ass, kneading and pulling. “Turn over,” wasn’t a question, or a request. It gave absolutely no room to be disobeyed or questioned, and even before Crowley could move to do so (and he absolutely wanted to do so) his body was being rolled. “Are you prepared?”

No, no he hadn’t been. He hadn’t thought that far ahead, he hadn’t thought this would feel as encompassing as it did. He hadn’t expected all this thoughts to ricochet out of his cock. He hadn’t expected to be as close to orgasm as he’d ever been with nothing more than the firm hands of his lover spreading his cheeks. 

“_Crowley_,” was admonishment, was disappointment, was the sound of a school master berating— No, no that would be taking it too far. They had no need for roleplaying when they could be anything or anyone they wanted. He hadn’t meant to groan into his knuckles, and he hadn’t meant to press his ass back into the hands resting against them. He hadn’t meant to wonder what it would be like to—

No. No, that was quite enough.

“Perhaps you should stop taking it for granted that we’ll end up this way,” he said. He gathered up enough of what passed for offended when you more interested in continuing than you were with protesting. He used the last of his brain cells to snap his fingers and almost lost it at the purr of approval from behind him. “Stop admiring it,” he snapped, “get your cock out.”

Aziraphale slapped his ass with more force than he’d ever employed before (not that they’d gotten very far in the arena of spanking). “You can wait for me,” he said. It might have carried more wait if the angel had been able to wait for himself. He could hardly contain the shake of his hands as he shoved his pants down to free his cock. “Oh,” he said like he’d only just remembered, “my coat.” He could have shrugged it off his shoulders, but he snapped his fingers and whisked it away to safety. 

“If you’re ready,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale’s answer was to line up the fat head of his cock and pull Crowley back onto it. And it was fucking brilliant, it was fucking _amazing_ to be split open by the angel’s amazing fucking cock. It felt like _relief_. “That’s nice,” the angel said, “it’s very nice.”

Nice wasn’t the word that Crowley would have chosen. He was on his elbows and knees on dusty stairs, and there was a lost and wandering hand sliding up the gaping bottom of his shirt to grab at his chest, looking for those tits that Aziraphale was so fond of. There were none to be found but that didn’t stop Crowley from pressing Aziraphale’s hand as hard as he could against his nipple, from gasping in shock at how electric and pleasant it felt to have his palm grind against it and—

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasped when his fingers squeezed around Crowley’s hard nipple, at how Crowley jerked forward and then back. At how it felt to slide fully inside of him in one quick jerk, and the chorus of noises they made at the discovery of this new sensation. “Was it always so good for you?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” he said. He lifted up so his hands were pressed against the next highest stair, and Aziraphale was clever enough to slide both his hands up under Crowley’s shirt. He was stretched against Crowley’s back and that complicated things but his hot hands and busy fingers set to the task of soothing and abusing Crowley’s aching chest. Every little touch, sweet or stinging jerked through his body so that Crowley was fucking _himself_ on the cock in his ass, and Aziraphale was doing little more than hanging on for the ride.

They lacked skill, and finesse, and patience, everything was a slap of skin, a scratch of nails, a hurried wet breath passing through their clenched teeth. He was frantic to bring an end to this drowning feeling, and it built and built and built, until he couldn’t move hard enough or fast enough, and no matter how he chased at release he couldn’t quite catch up to it. 

“Fuck,” he gasped again, and his hands grabbed Aziraphale’s through his shirt. “Fuck, fuck _me_.”

“What have I been doing?” Aziraphale answered. He thrust forward and they both slid on the steps, the wood edge dug into Crowley’s desperately spread thighs, and it _hurt_ and it didn’t. 

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Crowley answered. He kept one hand clasped around Aziraphale’s wrist and dropped the other down to wrap around his own aching dick. He was damp with precum and the sweat dripping off his skin. His head was buzzing with how close he was, and how far he still had to go. But Aziraphale had been challenged and he was always best when he had something to prove. A little prodding at his ego went a good ways under the right circumstances. 

They were barely breathing, gasping out sounds like fools. Aziraphale’s cock was throbbing, or Crowley’s body was, or both of them were, and it didn’t matter where it started but only that it finally-

Finally,

_Finally_ ended. Crowley’s orgasm was like being dragged out to sea. He couldn’t do anything but hope for the best and hang onto the arm around him. Aziraphale didn’t so much as _stutter_ in his sworn duty of fucking him, his hips were thrusting forward, his cock was driving into Crowley’s clenching body and it must have been the best feeling in the entire world from the sound the angel made. From how sweet his voice was when the orgasm overcame him.

Crowley sagged forward, shifted his weight back to his elbows and pressed his hot-as-hellfire cheek against the stair. He felt battered in the aftermath, and even that was a decidedly pleasant sensation. (Except the semen that dribbled out when Aziraphale pulled free. He always forgot that messy detail.) “Damned good job,” he said with his eyes closed.

“I hope so,” Aziraphale gasped. He was collapsing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning his back against the bannister as he reached up with two cautious fingertips to touch a pink-hot-patch of Crowley’s skin. “You’ve got my handprint on your ass.” It was too hard to tell if that was wonder or embarrassment in his voice. 

Crowley laughed. “It’ll go away.”

\--

They’d decided to have a cup of tea after their very recent, almost violent passionate love making. The splotches of color hadn’t even faded from Crowley’s skin, the sweat had not even cooled from Aziraphale’s forehead. He had only made it as far as the kettle—

Crowley had followed, missing his sunglasses, with his hair in mussed peaks the shape of Aziraphale’s fists. His pants were undone and low on his flushed hips. His shirt was still rucked up to show his flat bare belly. He was leaning back against the wall, head tipped back, still calming his breathing back to normal. 

It was a filthy thought, a _human_ thought that there was Aziraphale’s cum still drying on Crowley’s skin. That he’d had him bent over on the stairs just a few moments ago, that the imprint of Aziraphale’s cock was still a phantom sensation inside of his lover. He was thinking about how firm and lean and _long_ Crowley’s body was. At how the hair below his navel would feel under Aziraphale’s tongue. 

“Oh dear,” he said as his knees seemed to give out on him. “I think you’ve overdone it.” He had more to say but there was the taste of Crowley’s skin to consider, there was the feel of the hair being slicked down to his skin. There was the smell of him—sweat and cock and Aziraphale’s own cum. 

“I seem to have, yeah,” Crowley agreed. His fingers were encouraging, not demanding, following along as Aziraphale’s tongue discovered a delightful path from navel to zipper. His mouth was eager, and hot—

“We should stop this,” Aziraphale said mostly into the fabric stretched around Crowley’s plump cock.

“Shh,” Crowley assured him, “in a minute.”

\--

A minute had become an hour, and Crowley was digging his elbows into the floor to pull away from Aziraphale in a desperate move to remind himself that he had decided they should put an end to this. They really should have stopped a few rounds ago. If Crowley were truly capable of exhaustion he would have been crying for a break. He might have kicked the angel in the balls just to remind him that there were alternatives to sex than giving a demon a blow job and fucking him in the ass for the better part of an hour.

Crowley made a mental note to discuss the nature of their sexual preferences as soon as he had his mind functioning at full capacity again. Because he’d known the angel for six thousand years, and sure they were new enough to fucking, but it was still a surprise to find out how much Aziraphale liked using his teeth.

It had been a shock enough to discover how Crowley didn’t mind having his ass slapped, and he wasn’t averse to being held down, and while he was listing revelations he couldn’t even be bothered to object to being nipped at. His body was a patchwork of passionate red marks left by his lover.

“Stop,” he said as soon as he was free enough to feel the breeze of fresh air on his skin. “Give me a minute.” 

“Sixty seconds,” was the most threatening thing Aziraphale had ever said. (More threatening by far than his sweetly damning ‘I’ll never talk to you again’. This wasn’t an angel that was as fragile as he was beautiful. No, this was a sex monster that Crowley had made out of an angel. This was a man who had found everything he hadn’t realized he wanted, and he wasn’t just going to give it up.) 

“I miscalculated how this would affect supernatural entities such as ourselves. Humans feel this all the time and humans are—humans, they’re precious but they’re small, they’re so small, and so _brief_ they can’t feel things like we do and we don’t have any defenses against his.”

“Time’s up,” Aziraphale said. He wrapped his hand around Crowley’s leg and dragged him back.

“That wasn’t sixty seconds.”

“Close enough.”

\--

The tables had turned, as the saying went. (The table had, also, turned. As in turned over because it just wasn’t made to be rutted against.) Crowley had wrestled his way to the top he looked just as good poised between Aziraphale’s lazy thighs as he had been spread out beneath him. His cock was buried as deep in Aziraphale as could be managed, and the two of them were staring at each other.

“We’ve got to stop this,” Crowley said. “It’s been _three hours_.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “Look at the state of my bookshop.”

“The state of your bookshop?” Crowley hissed back. He did look up, at the toppled bookcases, at the overturned table, at the shamefully stained couch. The kettle was on the floor in a shattered circle of teacups. The whole floor was a minefield of body fluids. “We did all that?”

“You didn’t notice?”

“Hard to notice anything when you’re being savagely fucked,” Crowley said. He pushed his hair away from his face and then dropped his hands down to fold over the meatiest part of Aziraphale’s thighs. 

“Sorry,” Aziraphale offered. (He wasn’t though. He wasn’t sorry in the least.)

“Right,” Crowley said, “So, right after this, we’ll stop. I’ll miracle us back.” He didn’t even sound like he believed himself as he started thrusting into Aziraphale. 

\--

Crowley was back on his back, but it was an acceptable compromise when there wasn’t a dick in his ass. (This time, but he had the notion that if he didn’t actually follow through on his empty threats to end this ongoing disaster that a cock would not be far from his ass in the very near future.) “You’re beautiful,” he was saying, “you’re perfect,” and he wasn’t sure why he was saying it, “you’re absolutely magnificent, you’re good, you’re so-so-good.”

Maybe he was saying it because every little praise he’d uttered had made Aziraphale jerk his hips harder, had made his skin flush deeper, and made his moans get a little more vibrant. There was a heady, heavy satisfaction in driving the angel higher. As much as he’d deny it when they were through, he was willing to do whatever it took to see Aziraphale make that face, that look of utter abandon. The shameless way he was fucking himself on Crowley’s cock, with his pink thighs spread open and his soft hand working his own dick with unhurried precision. They had been dragging this one out, and it was on the verge of starting to hurt. 

But Aziraphale’s eyes were glittering slits and his smile was so fucking precious, so perfectly precious that Crowley could convince himself that it didn’t matter.

\--

Aziraphale opened the store almost on time. There was only one customer lurking in the doorway, a nice elderly woman that liked to take a book to a chair in the corner and occupy that space as long as she could. She was quiet, and unassuming, and Aziraphale saw no reason at all to tell her that she wasn’t welcome. 

He straightened a few books on the shelf he passed on his way to retrieving his cup of cocoa, and found Crowley still passed out on the couch where he’d fallen as soon as he’d finally scraped together enough braincells to snap his finger and free them from the unending lust. He looked very innocent while he slept. His long body was a delicate curl, his hair was fluffy and floppy with no products in it. And Aziraphale thought he was more darling now than he had ever been. He’d let him sleep for a bit, no more than a few days, and then he’d wake him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have any suggestions/prompts for future chapters feel free to leave them here or at my tumblr: [bewareofchris](https://bewareofchris.tumblr.com/ask)


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